


Waking and Dreaming

by Regann



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regann/pseuds/Regann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles knows he needs to find the right words to change Erik's mind, but maybe the words he needs aren't his own. Hopefully, he'll get his second chance. AU Fixit Fic for the beach divorce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking and Dreaming

  
The next mutant on their list is located relatively near the CIA research facility in a small logging community nestled in the mountains of West Virginia. It's not hard for Charles to find the bright thread of her mind once they're within range, and they soon find themselves sitting in a small roadside diner under its too-bright lighting until the end of the girl's waitressing shift.

Charles watches her out of the corner of his eye as he and Erik wait, both pretending to drink the coffee they've barely touched. Erik watches, too, but just the slightest brush of his mind against his friend's tells Charles they think of vastly different things. Erik is taking the measure of every person around them, assessing risks, mentally calculating weapons and exits, while Charles is focused more specifically on the woman they've come to meet. She's around their age, blonde, pretty, but there's a hardness in her sharp, dark eyes and the lines of her face that reminds him a little of Erik, as if she's already seen and experienced too much of the world. That worldliness is at odds with the rest of her soft, rounded features and the blue gingham uniform she wears for her job, the fake smile she pastes on for her customers. It makes Charles even more interested in how her mutation might manifest.

 _I hope we are not wasting our time_ , Erik thinks at him once his mind is no longer preoccupied. _She does not seem the kind to be moved by your pretty words._

 _She may surprise you, Erik_ , Charles answers.

There's just enough time for Charles to feel the faint edges of Erik's amusement before she joins them, sighing as she tucks her order pad into the pocket of her apron and her pencil behind her ear before she takes a seat with them. The booths and tables are empty this late in the evening; it's the counter where most of the patrons crowd. She wisely chose the most distant booth in the diner for them, so far removed from the humans around them that Charles feels comfortable speaking out loud, albeit in a low, hushed tone.

Erik leaves him to share most of their purpose, although he adds things here and there as he feels necessary. Her name is Kassie, a name she thinks so loudly that Charles cannot miss the "K" in its spelling, and, while she listens, the frown on her face only grows deeper with each word. Even without much invasion, Charles can sense her feelings, a combination of suspicion, disbelief, and overwhelming sadness.

"We have talked enough," Erik finally says, cutting off the rest of Charles's last sentence. "You know what we can do. What can you do?" There is a hint of challenge in his voice, something that has worked with some of the more reluctant mutants they've met during their travels. It does not seem to impress Kassie as she crosses her arms.

"It's not very useful," she tells them, not meeting their eyes. "Really, it's not good for anything."

"I'm sure that's not true," Charles tells her. "That's one of the things we want to do, you know. Work with you and your gift. Help you realize your potential."

"Thanks but no thanks." She shakes her head. "It's best when I can ignore it. You'd be better to do it, too."

"Kassie..."

She stands, still shaking her head. "My shift's over," she tells him. "I gotta go."

Charles reaches out to stop her, just a brush of his hand against her arm but she jerks away with a violence that startles him. He's also startled by what he could read through the contact, the same sadness and resignation, irritation with them, and also a little horror at his touch. He can't explain it properly, even to himself, but he felt it and heard the litany of _you shouldn't have_ s that went with it. He frowns at her retreating back, still trying to make sense of it.

"Another failure," Erik states.

"Maybe not," Charles tells him. Then he glances down at his watch. "It's late enough that we should stay the night. Maybe when we try again in the morning."

But the next morning, Kassie doesn't have a shift at the diner, and when Charles reaches out with his mind, he cannot pinpoint her. They ask, but no one in the town will tell them where she lives.

As much as Charles is thwarted by their reticence, he is glad to know that she has the protection of this close-knit community, something many of the mutants they've met do not. He prays that this never changes for her, even if the day comes when her differences are exposed.

They're out of West Viriginia within hours, Erik frustrated by another wasted trip while Charles wishes he just had one more chance to convince her to join them, wondering if they'll ever cross paths again.

The next time Charles sees her, it's on a beach.

Not a beach, _the_ beach, the one where he lies more paralyzed with the agony in his heart than the pain in his spine. One minute, he is watching Erik and Raven disappear with the remnants of Shaw's team, then he looks along the water's edge and there he sees her -- still in her gingham uniform and sturdy white shoes, still with a frown on her face, emanating sadness.

When she notices his gaze, she walks toward him. Charles notices that no one -- not Moira, Alex, Sean, or Hank -- reacts to her presence, and he can't help but wonder if she's a ghost or a hallucination.

"I told you it was useless," she says, looking down at him, silhouetted by the sun on her back . "It only works when it's bad and then it doesn't do any good anyway."

As she speaks, everything around them starts to fade away, becoming soft and blurry around the edges. Even the pain in his back and the numbness of his legs leach away, though this new development does nothing for the constriction in his chest, like a vice since he watched the people most dear to him in the world disappear from it in a curl of red smoke.

Charles has stumbled into too many other people's minds not to recognize the haziness now draped around them. "Your gift -- you control dreams?"

"I don't control anything," she remarks, her bitterness unmistakable. "But sometimes people see things after they talk to me. And I end up with them like this."

Kassie holds out a hand and helps him to his feet. The beach around them is frozen, awash in blue. When he glances behind him, he sees that he's still lying on the sand with Moira and the boys by his side, even as he stands next to them. "But this is a dream, yes?"

"Right now it is," she admits. "But in a few weeks, you'll be there." She points to the unmoving tableau. Charles can still hear the echo of his own words in his head and he shudders. _I can't feel my legs._

But it hasn't happened -- not yet.

"A premonition, then," Charles says, hope flickering alive inside him, fighting against the despair. "I can change this."

"You can't," Kassie tells him.

He frowns. "Why not?"

"Because you won't remember," she reveals with a deep sigh. "I will, but you won't believe me if I try to tell you. I've tried that before. I've tried everything before, to get people to see. But they never do."

"No, it will work this time," he tells her. "I'm different, I'm like you. Even if I don't remember, I'll believe you if you tell me."

Charles is desperate to make her understand that he needs to know about this, needs to have the chance to change things, but now even Kassie is fading away now. "I'm sorry," she tells him.

"Kassie, _please_. Give me this chance." He reaches out for her but she's already nothing more than shadow. Then it feels as if something massive has slammed into him, and he's back in his pain-wracked body in Moira's arms, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Kassie, like Erik and Raven, is gone; Charles's ability to hope seems to have gone with them.

In his mind, he howls out his frustration, desperate and broken, even though it does no good.

Then there is a mental shout ricocheting through his head, and Charles obeys its command. _Charles! Stop screaming! Wake up!_

Charles opens his eyes to see Erik towering over him where he lies on a thin motel mattress, his friend's hands tight on his shoulders. Erik's face is hard and troubled, but his eyes soften when they meet Charles's, not doubt reacting to the panic Charles cannot explain that grips him.

"Erik?" he asks. "What's wrong?"

"That's my question for you," Erik tells him, not moving from where he hovers above him. "You were screaming in your mind so loudly that I could hear it in mine."

"I apologize," he says. "I didn't realize." Charles can't help but feel the bleed of Erik's emotions as close as they are, as startled as he was from sleep. He can feel Erik's genuine concern as well as his curiosity, the latter muted by the former and by the warm soft weight of something he has come to recognize as Erik's affection for him.

"I never took you as one for nightmares," Erik observes. "That's been my purview during this trip."

They're both remembering the handful of times this scenario has played out in reverse: Charles wakened by Eric's screams -- some psychic, some vocal -- chased by the demons he only shares with Charles because he has no choice.

"Not even my dreams are always pleasant, my friend," he says with a smile. Erik returns it with a slight upturn of his mouth and Charles tries not to notice how lovely he finds it or reflect too closely on how his panic is soothed so easily by Eric's presence. He tries not to dwell on the intimacy of it, intimacies he's granted no one before, not until Erik.

"Do you remember what you dreamed of?" Erik asks.

Charles tries but there are only a handful of images -- sand, sun on metal, pain, desperation. He shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."

Erik finally relaxes his hands and runs them down Charles's arms, a parting comfort before he moves back to his own bed. "It was only a dream," he says. "I guess it doesn't matter."

"I guess not," Charles agrees softly, his body already trying to achieve sleep once again. He has plans for an early start, hoping to convince Kassie to join them where he failed earlier that evening.

When he finally drifts back off, Charles's sleep is dreamless.

Kassie is nowhere to be found the next morning and, though Charles regrets that he never learned her ability or convinced her to join them, he knows they have other responsibilities, others of their kind to help.

They leave West Virginia behind and head back to the CIA base where the others wait, where the real work will begin. In his plans and hopes for what's to come next, Charles quickly allows these past two days to recede from his thoughts, just one more failure to add to a list of them.

It's not, he tells himself, as if anything important happened.

**

Charles has experienced more pain in his life than he would care to admit, both his own and others'. But nothing in his past prepared him for what he feels in that moment, pain on top of pain ripping through his mind as he struggles to keep Sebastian Shaw under his control.

The faintest emotions are the impressions of his students as they fight with Shaw's men, more fear and adrenaline than actual pain. There is also the last fading echoes of Erik's thoughts, remembrances of his own agonies before he suited himself in Shaw's telepath-proof helmet, sealing himself away from Charles so abruptly that it stole his breath to lose it.

 _It's not that I don't trust you, Charles..._

And there is Charles's own hurt -- mental, emotional, but no less stinging -- at the loss of Eric's mind against his, Erik's doubts, his resistance. It is a pain that does not live only in his head, either, stretching down into the tightness of his throat, the ache of his chest. It would bring tears to his eyes, if it could.

But it cannot, because Charles is capable of nothing at the moment but screaming out the excruciating, life-ending pain he now shares with his nemesis as Erik takes his vengeance, driving the coin through Shaw's brain.

It is unlike anything he has ever felt, and it is the first time he's ever truly known what the word "unbearable" means. Though he is left untouched by the coin, the pain makes him wish for death, but he does not relinquish his foothold in Shaw's mind, not even to spare himself when it feels like his mind will splinter under the onslaught.

He can only hold on and _feel_ it all, daggers in his mind and in his heart. His saving grace, when it comes, is completely unexpected.

It's like the waves of pain have pushed against a dam in his mind and suddenly Charles is distracted from it by a torrent of memories he didn't know he had. Many of these memories twin the ones he already has and they bring on a strange kind of deja vu; but then they continue past that moment and into the next and the next until he's broken and bloodied on the sands of that beach, watching himself watch Erik and Raven walk away.

That pain, he thinks, even as the phantom coin begins to tear through the backside of his skull, is one that truly cannot be borne.

Though there is nothing he wants less than the outcome he saw in his mutant-assisted dream, there seems to be little he can do to break away from what it has ordained. Just like before, he finds himself stumbling across the beach as Erik emerges from the submarine with Shaw's lifeless body held aloft, watching as he lets it fall like a forgotten ragdoll, that blasted helmet like a beacon in the tropical sunlight.

Charles takes the precious seconds in which Erik tells the others of the ships' new target to try for some kind of equilibrium, but his tortured mind does not want to think. Even reaching out to confirm Erik's revelation about the ships is a hardship on his trembling psyche, made even more unbalanced by the gaping wound of Erik's shielded thoughts.

But then it is his worst nightmare all over again as Erik lifts his hands first to stop the barrage of missiles from raining down upon them and then to turn them back on their owners. And Charles knows he needs to stop him from doing this, just as much as he needed to the first time, but the right words, the ones that will work, fail to come to him.

"Erik, _no_ ," he begs instead. "Please do not do this!"

"They'd kill us where we stand," Erik tells him. "It has to be done."

It's on his tongue to say something about the innocent lives Erik plans to destroy, but Charles already knows they will fail to move his friend to mercy. In fact, every important reason he has for why Erik should not do this are reasons Erik has already dismissed in their conversations together over the last few weeks, all reasons he rates secondary to his own needs for retaliation. They will never reach Erik or change him.

Maybe what Charles needs are reasons that matter on a much smaller scale.

When he speaks, the words that slip out are not his own; they echo through his mind in Erik's broken voice. "Us turning on each other? It's what they want, Erik. Don't let it happen. "

Miraculously, Erik's hand keeps the missiles still in mid-air. "What are you saying, Charles?" There's suspicion in his tone and anger, but something else as well.

"I want you by my side," he says aloud, still hearing Erik's voice say the same thing in his head. As he speaks, Charles can hear every speck of longing he has in him in those words, a truth he hadn't planned to reveal. He continues. "But that cannot happen if you do this."

"Because you would turn from me?" Erik's voice breaks on the question, but the missiles remain suspended, held immobile by his power.

"I might not survive it," Charles confesses. "So soon, after experiencing Shaw's death in my mind? Feeling thousands of others..."

Erik turns startled eyes toward him, the pale irises wide and anguished. "I didn't know that you would...that you'd..."

Charles feels hope surge up in him for the first time since Erik took Shaw's helmet for his own. "We want the same thing: all of us together, protecting each other."

As he says it, Charles realizes it's the truth. They _do_ want the same thing -- to build a safe future for their kind and to do so together. The particulars on how to go about it might need hashing out but the heart of it isn't so different, not different enough to risk a lifetime of estrangement.

Not for Charles, anyway.

Feeling bold, he takes another careful step toward Erik, until he can almost reach out to touch him. It is like his face is a magnet for all Erik seems capable of looking away from him. "But if you do this, you will start a war we are not ready to win."

"Your capacity for idealism in the face of the facts continues to astound me," Erik tells him. "They'd have had us dead minutes ago and you still want to spare them?"

"This is not about idealism or sentimentalism or anything other than pragmatism," he disagrees. "They will never rest until they destroy us if you do this. _Look around_." Charles makes a sweeping gesture with his arms, one that encompasses the two groups of mutants, both worse for their wear after the events of the day. "We are not ready to have the whole of America and Russia bearing down on us. We're too few, for one."

He risks a touch, his gloved fingers against the rough fabric of Erik's suit where it stretches over his lowered arm. "Sometimes, Erik, even you need to retreat."

When Erik looks up from Charles's hand on him, Charles doesn't need to read Erik's mind to know that they are both thinking of the night they met, tangled together in the dark waters of the ocean as Charles saved Erik from himself. Charles hopes he can do it again, here on this bright beach.

Finally Erik turns away from him, breaking the tentative contact, and stares hard at the sky, still strewn with the frozen bombs. He doesn't know what else to say or do, so Charles stands there, holding his breath and blinking against the sun as he waits for Erik's next move.

Behind him, Charles hears the soft brush of feet on the sand and panics rips through him. "Moira," he says sharply. "Steady. As you were."

 _And don't even think of pulling your gun_ , he speaks into her mind, followed by a quick warning glance over his shoulder. She swallows but nods, dropping the hand already poised over her weapon.

When he turns back, Erik's hand is moving and the artillery is hurtling through the air once again, streaking across the sky toward the open expanse of ocean between the beach and the line of ships. Charles goes cold all over despite the baking Caribbean heat, the chill in his heart as he realizes he has failed once again. Just like in his vision, he'll lose everyone he loves on that hellish beach, no matter how hard he's fought to keep them.

And he cannot stop fighting now, not even knowing what's to come. If he has nothing else, Charles still has his ideals, and they won't let him watch thousands of innocent men die, even when their actions have killed the important parts of himself.

Following the same, desperate instinct as before, Charles launches himself at Erik, taking them both to the sand in a tangle of straining limbs. He lashes out with the last bit of his strength, awkward, clumsy fingers scrabbling across the slick surface of the helmet, trying to wrench it from Erik's head. Erik, as before, resists but it doesn't deter Charles, even as his fingers slide uselessly across the metal. He also can't stop the tears -- of strain or sorrow, of everything -- that gather in the corner of his eyes as he struggles for the upper hand, knowing as he does what comes next: the dissolution of their friendship, the end before they ever really had a chance to begin.

Caught as he is in between what is and what might be, Charles does not immediately recognize the differences between that tussle and the one from the other future, but when he does, his resolves wavers in confusion. Erik is not fighting to get away from him but to subdue him, and he repeats Charles's name over and over again, low and urgent, an entreaty of some sort.

Then, Charles is trapped beneath Erik's weight, strong hands pinning his wrists above his head. Erik hovers above him, his concern evident even around the sharp angles of the helmet still firmly on his head, chillingly reminiscent of that night in West Virginia, when Charles came awake fighting against the same fate that's found him here.

"Charles, _Charles_ ," Erik continues, in that low rough voice. Then, "Calm _down_ ," another strange conversational reversal that echoes through Charles's mind. "I didn't..."

Charles dimly becomes aware of the sound of explosions in the distance and he twists beneath Erik, craning his neck to look out over the water, expecting to see the flaming wreckage of the combined American/Soviet fleet. Instead, he watches in shock as the bombs collide into each other and explode above the empty stretch of water, a harmless but speculator display of their destructive force.

Still breathing heavily from the physical exertion, Charles feels relief crash over him, both his own and the distant din of the sailors' who have so narrowly escaped death. It leaves him shaky, speechless, unable to do anything for a full minute but turn back to Erik and stare as if the man's wide, blue eyes will reveal what the helmet conceals.

"Thank you," Charles whispers, shameless in his gratitude, in the fresh sheen of moisture it brings to his eyes. He offers a faint smile to his friend, though it's as shaky as Charles's limbs, still watery with surprise.

Even from beneath the helmet, Erik's answering expression is visible, his eyes never leaving Charles's face. "Sentimental as always," he declares with a roll of his eyes, but his hands relax until they are no longer restraining Charles's wrists, merely holding on, the swipe of thumb over his veins edging it toward a caress. Erik finally releases him completely, then pulls himself off Charles. Once upright, he holds out a hand to Charles, a hand that he takes, letting himself be helped to his feet.

The fact that he can actually _stand_ is just another euphoric burst in his blood, his head already swimming from his other victories -- the fleet is still floating and Erik is still at his side with a steadying grip on his arm, one Charles finds he desperately needs.

"We've survived today but this is far from over," Erik tells the others who all are staring at the two of them in stunned disbelief. "The humans have played their hand, now we must get ready to play ours." He sweeps his eyes first over Shaw's team, then their own, but it's Charles on which they settle, fever-bright and intense in their query. "Who's with me?"

Angel, Azazel and Riptide step forward almost as one, while Hank, Alex and Sean remain motionless, watching Charles for their cue. Moira is a mere bystander, eyes darting from one face to another as the scene unfolds.

Of their team only Raven moves, a shifting of her feet as if she can't decide who she wants to follow -- Charles, her oldest and dearest friend, or Erik, the man who has shown her a path she ever imagined before.

Charles looks away from the painful indecision in her yellow eyes to meet the question in Erik's, still waiting for him. "Well?" Erik asks.

He knows why he answered as he did in that original future -- _Oh, my friend, we do not_ \-- and those reasons still exist between him and Erik, between their divergent philosophies about the world. Yet Charles cannot make himself turn away from Erik again, not when there's hope that a middle way can be found.

Charles nods slowly, never taking his eyes from his friend's face.

He can feel some of the tension leave Erik's body with his answer, but he does not break their connection. Charles knows that he cannot read what he sees in those cool eyes and he wonders if it's different for Erik, who has never relied on telepathic powers, to find the answers he wants in Charles's.

Perhaps he can because after a long moment, Erik raises his hands and slowly removes Shaw's helmet.

It's like the sun coming from behind a cloud, the bright joy that skates along Charles's spine when he feels the brush of Erik's mind against his after what feels like an eternity of blindness. He doesn't try to read anything from him, just basks in the quiet sense of Erik's mind within his reach. It is a heady feeling, one that does nothing to help Charles's unsteady equilibrium, but one he wouldn't trade for the world.

This time, when they all disappear from Cuba in a curl of red smoke, the only thing that abandoned on the sun-baked sands is Shaw's discarded helmet, left behind to rust.

**

Days later and it's like nothing and everything has changed.

The changes, on the surface, seem inconsequential. Angel has returned to the fold, although it's a much less welcoming fold than the one she left. Alex, Sean and Hank might be willing to forgive in the name of mutant solidarity but they are not yet ready to forget, adding a layer of tension among the young people that's never been there before. Only Raven has accepted the girl back with open arms, and Charles thinks he's probably the only one who understands why. He, more than anyone, knows how close Raven came to being the next one to defect to the other side, a fact that hurts whenever Charles thinks about it too closely.

While Angel has returned, Moira is gone.

It was heartbreaking but necessary, something Charles knew on his own. He didn't doubt her loyalty or her promises to protect them, but promises were broken easily enough, especially when the CIA already proved themselves so terribly ruthless when it comes to dealing with the "mutant problem." Though it's only been a few days, Charles already misses her and knows he will for some time. In many ways, they were most kindred spirits, at least when it comes to their ideas about the world.

And then there is Erik.

Although Erik is still staying at the manor with the rest of them, he is only incidentally present, at least in Charles's orbit. Since their return he has kept himself as far away from Charles as possible, both physically and mentally, his mind very clearly cordoned off by telepathic warning buoys. Not that Charles has risked anything more than the lightest of touches, too afraid of what he might find if he goes any deeper. But he can't stop himself from reaching out several times a day, just to assure himself that Erik is still within reach, not somewhere half-way across the world or severed from him by some mysterious metal barrier.

It was Erik with who Azazel and Janos spoke once they all arrived and to whom they presumably said their goodbyes when they disappeared hours later. Charles does not know what has become of them or if they are expected back because Erik has chosen not to share any of it with him. Before Cuba, he would've demanded the information or scanned his friend's mind for it, but now he gives Erik a wide berth in all things, wary, worried, and waiting.

Erik's distance is a heavy weight on Charles, one that he cannot stop worrying in his thoughts. During the day, he has the children to distract him but at night, it's harder not to spend the hours mulling over the possibilities. Or brooding, as Raven would call it. But Charles still clearly remembers the ache left in him by Erik's departure in the vision he dreamed and even if he's managed to save his legs with his actions on the beach, he's still not sure he won't wake up to find Erik gone forever from his life.

Such thoughts are the reason Charles finds himself in the kitchen long after he's suggested the children should pack off to bed. He has already exhausted the medicinal properties of alcohol to little effect, so he's willing to try something radical, like tea.

Rummaging around in kitchen in the still of the night reminds him of the first night he met Raven and he can't help the faint upward curve of his mouth as he puts the kettle on to boil. It also reminds him of another meeting between the two of them there just within the last week, and that memory chases away the smile before it can really form.

Steam is rising from Charles's cup where it sits on the table a few minutes later as he rubs at his tired eyes. He runs a hand through his hair before his forehead settles against his palm, supported by an elbow on the table. He is tired, in more ways than one, and he irrationally craves the tobacco he gave up months before.

Peace, he is finding, isn't what it once was, not when there's still so much left unsettled.

Charles has been so diligent in guarding himself that it almost surprises him when he senses Erik's presence nearby. He raises his head to see his friend standing in the open doorway, watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. It's almost painful how difficult it is to fight his instinctual desire to reach out with his mind, but he does, instead drinking in the details of the man standing before him with his eyes.

"Tea, Charles?" Erik says with a slight grin, as he might've before Cuba. "How very proper of you."

"Desperate," Charles corrects, lifting his cup. "I've run out of scotch." He drinks. "And bourbon."

Erik gestures toward the empty seat next to him. "May I?"

"Of course," Charles tells him with a nod of assent. "I have to admit I'm surprised, though. You've made yourself rather scarce these past few days."

Erik looks away, a sure sign he hears the rebuke in Charles's mild tone. But he's bold and his eyes quickly return to Charles's face. "We've all had things on our minds."

"Indeed," Charles agrees, thinking about how much _Erik_ has occupied his thoughts. "I've been wondering if you had plans to share those things."

Erik doesn't speak for several minutes, but Charles lets the silence linger, quietly sipping his tea. Erik rests his hands on the tabletop. "Shaw is dead," he says slowly, tasting each word. "And I find myself at a bit of a loss." He studies his upturned palms, as if he might be a believer in palmistry and think answers can be found carved into the lines of his hands. "I've never before been without a purpose guiding my life."

Charles thinks of his friend's elegant, passionate words on the beach, the conviction he cannot fault even when its methods worried him. "But you've found a new one. Your, ah, brotherhood of mutants, yes?"

"Yes." Erik nods, dragging his eyes away from his hands, back to Charles's face. Even after all the time they've spent together, Charles is always left breathless by the intensity of that gaze. "But we made some promises in Cuba, didn't we? That we'd do it together."

"Have you changed your mind, then?" Charles asks, struggling to mask the pain the thought brings. It's been his greatest fear since they came back to the manor -- that Erik would leave, would choose his own path instead of staying with Charles. Now that his worst fears are before him, he can feel his desperation in the sudden tightening of his throat, the clench of his fist against his thigh under the table.

"Of course not," Erik answers, and Charles feels the tension bleed out of his shoulders. "But I'm not sure _how_. It's not as if our opinions have changed so drastically in the span of a few days. You still want to embrace the world..."

"..and you still want to destroy it?" Charles cuts in, a wry twist to his mouth. It's nothing he hasn't thought of himself in the intervening days, another sign that, for all their disagreements, they are made to fit together. Even their anxieties mirror.

He's glad he has an answer, though. "There are a great deal of actions that fall between those two extremes, my friend. As men who can read minds and lift submarines high into the air, I think we should be able to figure out how to compromise for the good of mutantkind." At Erik's disbelieving look, Charles sighs, expression softening as he adds, "It's not as if we haven't already begun to do so."

Erik is quiet for a moment. "You sent Moira away."

"I did." Charles dares to reach out, to touch his hand gently to Erik's where it still lays on the table between them. "And you stayed."

His words are simple, but his thoughts are not, flitting through memories and emotions, a jumble of hope and pain and anticipation. With their hands touching, Charles thinks Erik must feel it all, even see flashes of some of what roils through his mind; when an _memoryimageflashfeeling_ of Shaw's death causes Erik to wince, Charles knows he can.

"Charles." Erik's voice is low and rough, hoarse where it trembles with emotion. "I didn't realize that you'd feel it, you have to know that." He lifts his free hand to Charles's temple, where the telepath's would linger if he were using his powers. Erik just lets the tips of his fingers brush against Charles's skin before he pulls away. "I would never wish that on you. Why did you...?"

"Hold on?" Charles smiles a little, sad but knowing. "Shaw needed to be stopped. And if I had left his mind, you'd have been at his mercy. That would've been a greater tragedy, I think, than my own discomfort."

"You are too good." From someone else it might've sounded like a compliment, but from Erik, it's said with sadness, almost mournful. "Whether from naivety or arrogance, it doesn't change the fact."

"No, Erik, I'm not." Charles shakes his head. "Not unless you can accept the same about yourself because we are equals." He hopes his conviction will carry in his voice. "That's why I know we can do this. Together."

Erik's hand is reaching for his face again, but this time the palm cups his jaw, his thumb brushing every so softly against the shadowed skin under his eye, something that cannot be mistaken as a simple, friendly gesture. Charles can't stop himself from letting his mind curl around Erik's, a sweet warm fog of affection and attraction that he feels returned. Then Erik is closing the distance between them until their mouths meet, gentle at first, until Charles's urgency bleeds over and Erik answers, mouth hot and slick and demanding.

"And you only prove my point," Erik murmurs when their lips slide apart, his hand now threading through Charles's hair. But he doesn't pull away and, when their eyes meet, he's smiling, something honest and true that makes Charles smile back.

He entwines his fingers with Erik's, knowing what he wants to say. The words have been in his head for months, since the second night of their acquaintance, when Charles knew he did not want his mysterious new friend to disappear into the night. "A new species is being born all around us." Charles moves forward until the breath of each word whispers against Erik's mouth. "Help me guide it, shape it, lead it. Will you?"

Erik's answer is swallowed between them as Erik leans in for another kiss, but Charles hears it in his mind all the same.

 _Yes._

**

It's months after Cuba that Charles finds himself once again in a small diner near a small town in West Virginia. He is there just as the breakfast rush thins, and he sits for almost an hour before Kassie enters, shrugging out of her coat to reveal her blue uniform.

She hasn't changed much since he last saw her, but neither has he, at least not in any way marked on his appearance. Nancy, the head waitress, immediately points Kassie toward the booth where Charles waits. When she looks his way, there is nothing but dread on her face.

It's only more pronounced by the time she slides into the booth next to him. "What are you doing here?" she asks, voice low and anxious.

"I just came to thank you," he tells her. "For saving me."

She frowns. "Saving you?"

"Yes, that dream or vision or whatever you call it, that you shared with me? I was able to stop it from coming to pass." Charles explains. "Well, the worst parts of it anyway."

Her eyes are wide with shock. "You remembered?" Her voice is barely a whisper now.

"I did," he nods. "Oh, not at first, but eventually."

"You're the only one," she reveals. "Is it because you're also...like me?"

"I don't know," he tells her honestly. "Perhaps. My mind also suffered a great deal of stress in the moments before I remembered. Maybe that was the trigger. I didn't have time to think about the mechanics of it when it happened."

"So the beach, it didn't happen?" she asks.

"Some of it did," he says. "But not the ending, which is why I'm so very grateful." He gives her a smile, one lit with his heartfelt gratitude. "Again, thank you."

When she smiles in return, it takes years from her face. "You're welcome."

The sound of the bell on the door draws Charles's attention at the same time as he feels Erik's presence in his mind. He's not surprised to look up and see that it's he who has walked into the diner. Erik impatiently points toward his wristwatch as a flow of words reaches Charles's mind. _This little side jaunt of yours has already cost us hours, you know._

 _I know,_ he sends back. _I'm almost finished, I promise._

He feels more than hears Erik's response, a tangled wave of fondness, exasperation and impatience which draws a flicker of gentle amusement from Charles in return.

When Charles rises from his seat, Kassie does the same, her eyes watching in amazement as he stands, whole and unharmed, just as he did when they met. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer," he tells her. "We're actually just passing through, and my companion is getting restless."

Kassie follows his eyes to where Erik waits near the entrance, arms crossed as he watches the room in that suspicious way Charles has become accustomed to. When Erik feels his eyes on him, he can't help but return Charles's faint smile, despite his irritation at the detour. "Something else I have you to thank for."

He hears her words in his mind before she speaks them. _I feel like I should thank you, too. I never thought it could never help anybody._

" _You_ were a great help," he tells her aloud. Before he allows Erik to tug him out of the diner, Charles presses something into her hand -- a plain white business card that bears nothing but an embossed "X" and a hand-printed telephone number. "And if you ever change your mind about joining us, you'll always be welcome."

He doesn't need to turn around to know she stares at it a moment before she tucks it into her apron pocket.

On the way to their car, Erik grumbles under his breath and in his mind about how they're hours off schedule on their way to find another mutant, one that hasn't already turned down a chance to work with them.

"She wasn't any more moved by your pretty words this time than she was the last," Erik points out, as he slides into the driver's seat. "I don't know why you bothered."

Charles can't help but laugh as he reaches over to give Erik's hand a quick, affectionate squeeze. "My friend, let's just say I owed her a second chance of her own."

  
 _Strange as it seems  
the chaos of dreams  
can change the course  
and shape of things_

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> The "Help me guide it, shape it… lead it" line is from one of the X-Men trailers. I've tried to reproduce some of the dialogue here but I'm hard of hearing, so it's difficult for me on some lines (even after multiple viewings), so please forgive any that I've heard wrong.
> 
> Title and end lyrics are from the Orleans song, "Waking and Dreaming." What? Orleans is _boss_.


End file.
